


Roots

by xxSparksxx



Series: Cultivation [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Everybody Lives, Hobbits have secrets, M/M, hobbit lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:06:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1387048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSparksxx/pseuds/xxSparksxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here in Erebor, among the Dwarves who had reclaimed their home with blood and sweat, Bilbo could almost forget that he was a Hobbit of the Shire. He could almost forget that Hobbits were not as other beings of Middle-earth, and that a mountain devoid of rich plant life was not the place for one such as he.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roots

Bilbo didn’t do it on purpose, of course. If he’d realised what was happening, he would have done something about it sooner. The Desolation of Smaug was immense, and all that was left growing on the Mountain or around it was scrubby, stubborn grass – but there _were_ living things, further away, closer to the lake and to the ruined remains of Lake-town. Crops and weeds and flowers had barely survived Smaug’s wrath, but Smaug had been less intent upon destroying the farms that lay beyond the boundaries of Lake-town than he had been on destroying the town itself.

But Bilbo did not realise what was happening. Not at first, not until it was too late. Not until he was too weak, too ill, to be able to manage the journey to those greener places.

It hadn’t happened to any Hobbit in so long, after all. So few Hobbits ever left the Shire, and fewer still ever went anywhere like Erebor, and so Bilbo had forgotten the stories about what happened to Hobbits when they were too long away from the good green things of the earth. 

It was a reaction to all the stress of the journey, he told himself for a while. It had been an adventure, and parts of it he really had enjoyed very much – particularly now that he was looking back on it, and no longer in danger of being eaten, poisoned, starved, drowned, burned, stabbed, or thrown off a wall. But it had been stressful, after all. Particularly that final battle, and the aftermath, that awful day when Bilbo had gone to see Thorin on what they had all been sure would be his deathbed.

But Thorin had survived, and nobody was entirely sure how, for his wounds had been severe. The rest of the company had recovered from their wounds, as well. Fili seemed to be rather proud of the new scar across his face. Kili had lost three fingers, but he was a determined lad, and as soon as he was allowed up he’d been back to practising with his bow, no matter how much Bilbo had fussed at him about resting.

Stress, Bilbo was sure it was stress. A delayed reaction, perhaps. There was simply no other reason for any good Hobbit to miss meals. The Mountain was provisioned well enough, thanks to Dain Ironfoot and the Elves of Mirkwood, that nobody was allowed to go hungry. But Bilbo found himself skipping meals anyway, time slipping by without feeling hungry at all as he spent long hours at Thorin’s bedside, watching over the healing King, unable to bear being parted from him for long. And Thorin, for his part, seemed eager for Bilbo’s presence as well.

“I have much to atone for,” Thorin remarked once, one evening when Bilbo was beginning to yawn. “I am grateful that you are giving me the chance for it, Master Baggins.” He was holding Bilbo’s hand in his, their fingers entwined, and Bilbo looked down at their hands, Thorin’s large and calloused and his own, smaller and paler. 

“You still have the right to use my name, Thorin,” Bilbo said to him, as he had said many times since Thorin had begged for his forgiveness. But Thorin shook his head, and lifted their hands to press a kiss against Bilbo’s palm. His beard tickled a little, but Bilbo didn’t mind.

He ate when Thorin ate, or at least he tried to eat, but eating now felt like a chore to Bilbo, not the pleasure it had always been. Bilbo reflected, later, that he should have seen that as a warning sign. But he did not. He ignored it, and ignored the way he began to feel more and more tired. Every morning it became a little harder to get out of bed. Every day it seemed as though evening could not come fast enough.

He stumbled through the magnificent halls of Erebor now, and nobody, least of all Bilbo, seemed to notice that he needed to lean against the walls for support. Nobody noticed how pale he had become, and there were no mirrors left untarnished in the Lonely Mountain, so Bilbo had no idea how he began to look.

He forgot, or ignored, the old warnings. Here in Erebor, among the Dwarves who had reclaimed their home with blood and sweat, he could almost forget that he was a Hobbit of the Shire. He could almost forget that Hobbits were not as other beings of Middle-earth, and that a mountain devoid of rich plant life was not the place for one such as he.

Gandalf had gone away, soon after they had been sure that Thorin would live, or perhaps somebody would have noticed sooner. He must go to Rivendell, he told Bilbo, and then he knew not where. But he promised to return to the Shire, before he set off on his wanderings once more, and to carry from Bilbo a letter and instructions about Bag End, and Bilbo trusted that he would make sure that nobody would prematurely attempt to dispose of his home.

“The Gamgees will look after the place for me, while I’m away,” Bilbo told his friend. “I’ll go back once everybody’s well again, I suppose. Not until spring, anyway.”

“But you can’t leave, Bilbo,” said Kili, looking so forlorn that Bilbo hadn’t the heart to press the point.

“We can’t do without you now, you know,” Fili said in agreement, and the two boys, slowly recovering in spirits from their first great battle, carried Bilbo off to Thorin’s rooms, where Thorin said that of course Bilbo was free to come and go as he wished.

“But you have a home here, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, and their eyes met, and Bilbo’s mouth was dry. “Forever, if you wish it. I cannot recreate Bag End for you, but I will give you every comfort you desire.”

There was nothing Bilbo could say to that, no way to express how he felt – and certainly not with Fili and Kili standing beside their uncle’s bed, identical grins of triumph spread across their faces. He simply nodded, and waved Gandalf off with a smile, and spent the winter in Erebor with his friends and his – with Thorin.

In truth, he wasn’t quite sure what he and Thorin were now. What had passed between them on the journey had been wrecked by Thorin’s gold-madness, by Thorin’s actions and words that terrible day when Bilbo had felt those strong hands close around his neck. Wrecked, but not forgotten, and Thorin was certainly attempting to make amends now. While he lay in bed, forbidden from getting up until his wounds were healed, he held Bilbo’s hand and made no promises, but his touch was careful and occasionally he kissed Bilbo’s hand, a gentle caress that made Bilbo want something less gentle. When he was able to get up and walk a little, he let Bilbo help him, and talked of showing Bilbo all the places in his kingdom that he remembered best, and listened intently when Bilbo spoke of the Shire, and his parents, and all the things that Bilbo had assumed would not interest the King Under the Mountain.

Then at last Oin declared him fit enough to ‘go and risk your life again, no doubt’, and Balin began to talk of a coronation once the winter was over and their people from the Blue Mountains could join them. Bilbo wondered what his place would be then, and he began to look at old maps in the library, trying to decide what path would be safest back to the Shire. He felt a longing for his home, for the green hills and the little woods, for the flowers and the farmlands and for the good, honest folk who never looked beyond their borders, even though he knew in his heart that he no longer truly belonged there and would never again be wholly satisfied in Bag End.

But Thorin had caught wind of it, and all but carried Bilbo from the library. Later, Bilbo would reflect that Thorin should not have been able to do that, not when he had lost so much muscle from his enforced bed rest, but then later Bilbo would realise how much thinner he himself had grown. 

At the time, however, he thought of none of this. When Thorin wrapped his arms around Bilbo’s waist and dragged him away from the dusty maps, all Bilbo could think was of the warmth of those arms, and of how close they were to each other, and of the way Thorin looked at him, so worried and so – so – 

So desperate, and Thorin begged Bilbo to tell him what he could do to persuade Bilbo to stay, at least a little longer. He sounded so humble, and Bilbo could not help himself. He smiled, and lifted a hand to tug gently at one of Thorin’s braids.

“What need do you have of a mere Halfling, my king?” he asked, teasing, and Thorin took Bilbo’s hand in his and pressed it to his cheek.

“Do you still not know why I need you?” he asked. “Have I not made it plain enough, Bilbo?” His eyes were fixed upon Bilbo’s face, and Bilbo felt himself blush. He brushed his thumb across Thorin’s cheek, and slid his hand down so his fingers were touching Thorin’s lips, warmed by Thorin’s breath.

“You are cold,” Thorin said then, and Bilbo withdrew his hand, clearing his throat. He was often cold now, and he blamed it on the Mountain, on living so far beneath the sun. The forges sent warmth up through the stonework, but not enough of it, not in the living quarters. “Come,” said Thorin, and he put his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders, a warm, heavy weight. “There is a fire in my rooms. You work yourself too hard, Bilbo.”

The winter passed, and Bilbo looked for the first signs of spring, but found none. There were no snowdrops or daffodils on the Mountain’s slopes, no birds nesting in trees – indeed, no trees to be found, not for miles, and Bilbo was so tired now that he couldn’t even begin to think about finding a pony and making the trek around the lake to Lake-town. He felt constantly fatigued, and now, when he should have been seeing those wonderful signs of spring and of new growth, he was beginning to realise why he was so ill.

Now Bilbo remembered the old stories, and now Bilbo remembered that he was, in fact, a Hobbit.

A Hobbit who needed the green things of the good earth to thrive.

He hid it from the others, of course. It was not a thing to be spoken about, not to the Dwarves around him, neither Dain’s men nor his own Company, dear as they were to him. He could not speak to the Men, who visited from the shelters that housed Lake-town’s residents to discuss rebuilding both Lake-town and Dale – nor to the Elves, who came every now and then with wagons of provisions for the Lonely Mountain. Decent as they all were, and friendly as he was with many of them, none of them were Hobbits, and so Bilbo could not speak to them.

Bilbo could not speak of this to anyone, and he was too weak now to remedy the situation himself. So he hid it from Thorin, who was growing so busy making the Mountain ready for his kin, and he hid it from Fili and Kili, who called him ‘uncle’ now, at first as a tease but then with deep affection. He hid it from his friends, from Bofur and Ori and Balin and the others, none of whom knew Hobbits well enough to be able to tell what was normal and what wasn’t, although Bombur clearly realised something was amiss, because he began searching Bilbo out to bring him food between meals.

But nobody realised how ill Bilbo had become until Gandalf returned to Erebor, just as the days were beginning to grow a little warmer.

He appeared one morning during breakfast, in the room that Bombur had appropriated as a dining hall, and nobody quite knew how he had passed the guards without being seen, but Thorin did not seem perturbed by this, and Dwalin only muttered something about wizards before returning his attention to his food.

“Well, you’re all looking settled in,” Gandalf remarked, helping himself to bread and butter and a large spoonful of preserves. “I half-wondered if I should find you all at war with the Elves again, but I see all is well.”

Bilbo smiled when Thorin muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, and it was then that Gandalf looked at him. He looked carefully, scrutinising Bilbo, and the amused fondness in his expression faded into something surprised and concerned.

“Bilbo Baggins,” said Gandalf softly, “whatever has happened to you?”

Bilbo said nothing. Nobody said anything for a long moment, although everyone at the table looked at Bilbo now. Fili and Kili, Dwalin and Gloin, and Ori at the far end. Thorin, seated next to Bilbo, seemed to be looking at Bilbo with new eyes.

“Nothing’s happened,” said Bilbo at last, but the words were awkward and he could see the disbelief on Thorin’s face as Gandalf’s words shocked him into looking closer. Bilbo knew well enough, by now, that he had lost more weight than was good for him. He knew his skin had grown pale and cold. But nobody had noticed, and Bilbo could not tell anybody what he needed and could not seek it out himself.

“Nothing?” Gandalf echoed. “I have never seen a Hobbit so thin and wasted.”

“Bilbo,” said Thorin, something broken in his voice. “Bilbo… how did I not notice?” Bilbo could not look away from Thorin, but neither could he speak. “Bilbo,” Thorin repeated, and he cupped Bilbo’s face between his hands. Thorin was warm, so warm that Bilbo could not help leaning into the touch, but he found little joy in it, for he could not give Thorin the answers he wanted, and he did not want to lie. Not again.

“You are ill, my friend,” said Gandalf, abandoning his breakfast and coming around the table. Kili made way for him, and Gandalf sat beside Bilbo and looked at his thin hand and felt how cold Bilbo was. “Why have you not seen a healer?”

“I am not ill,” said Bilbo, and it was all he would say. In vain Thorin questioned, demanded and begged. In vain Fili and Kili pleaded with him to tell them why he had not sought help, why he had not told them how ill he was growing. Bilbo would not speak. He could not, because they were Dwarves, and he was a Hobbit. 

“You should rest,” Thorin decreed at last, and he lifted Bilbo into his arms and took him from the dining hall. Bilbo did not object; indeed, it was a comfort, to be held in Thorin’s arms and to feel his concern. Fili and Kili trailed after them, and Gandalf followed, staff in hand and a heavy frown on his face, but Bilbo cared only for Thorin. Now that he was exposed, he cared only to have Thorin by his side for as long as he lasted.

He knew the course of this wasting, and he knew that without some living thing he would die. But Bilbo no longer had the strength to travel – he could barely even traverse the halls of Erebor – and he could not tell anybody what he needed.

He would go down in history as Mad Baggins, he thought to himself, the Hobbit who ran off with a Company of Dwarves and never came back, but he would not be remembered as one who betrayed his kind’s secrets, hidden from even those who claimed to know Hobbits well. 

For Gandalf had no idea what ailed Bilbo, and he said as much when Thorin turned on him, his temper running hot in his concern.

“If I knew, nothing could stop me acting,” Gandalf snapped at him. “I have never seen a Hobbit so pale, cold and thin as Bilbo has become. How none of you noticed, I have no idea.”

“Don’t,” said Bilbo. He was in his bed, propped up by a veritable pile of cushions that Kili had brought him, but he was weary and wanted no arguments. “Don’t argue on my account,” he said. Fili laid another blanket on top of him, and Bilbo smiled at the golden-haired son of Durin’s line. “Thank you,” he said, and Fili nodded, looking more troubled than Bilbo had seen in some time.

“Uncle,” Fili said, “how can we help you? Surely you know what ails you.”

Bilbo said nothing, and Thorin sent everyone from the room and came to sit on the bed, a painful mirror of the months when Thorin had been the one to lie prone, and Bilbo the one perched on the bed watching over him.

Thorin was not a Dwarf of many words, but he used them all now, pleading with Bilbo, reproaching him, promising to fetch him whatever would help, desperate and hurting and so very beloved. There were tears in his eyes, and Bilbo found it hard to refuse him, but there were some things that were not Bilbo’s secrets to tell.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he admitted, when at length he had to give some sort of answer.

“You have worried me now,” said Thorin. “Do you still not trust me, Bilbo?” That hurt them both, and Bilbo flinched and reached out for Thorin, a silent demand for an embrace that Thorin did not refuse. They lay on the bed together, Bilbo’s head resting on Thorin’s shoulder, Thorin’s strong arms securely around Bilbo, and if Bilbo cried a little, Thorin did not mention it.

At length Balin came to fetch Thorin, but Thorin sent him away, and returned to Bilbo’s bed. They lay quietly together, and although Bilbo knew Thorin was not contented, at least he had stopped asking questions which Bilbo could not answer. Bilbo kept his eyes closed and relished the warmth Thorin gave him, and tried very hard not to think about what was going to happen to him.

Bombur brought them lunch, and Thorin made Bilbo eat, but he could not stomach much, not even for Thorin’s look of disappointment. He no longer hungered. He was simply weary, deep down in his bones, and it was almost a relief when Thorin declared that he should stay in bed and rest.

Almost, but not quite, and Bilbo argued at first that he was not a child to be ordered about, nor yet a true subject of Thorin’s rule. But Thorin had only to say that he spoke solely from concern for Bilbo’s health, and Bilbo could not bear that expression on Thorin’s face, so he gave in and promised to stay in bed.

Rest would not help him. Bilbo was no longer sure that anything _could_ help, even if he were able to reach somewhere filled with the strong, solid feel of roots beneath his feet. He rather thought it might already be too late, because it had been so long since he could remember the feel of it, the warmth in his heart and the gentle hum in his bones that no Hobbit should ever have been without.

Thorin would take him somewhere, he knew. Thorin would take him anywhere, if it would heal him, because Thorin…Thorin loved him, and Bilbo trusted that. Bilbo trusted Thorin. He knew Thorin would never hurt him again.

But Bilbo could not speak of it. No Hobbit would dare to speak of it. It was not even something they spoke of amongst themselves much. Never around outsiders. Not even Gandalf knew how deeply ran the connection between Hobbits and the earth they tilled so diligently and loved so well.

Gandalf came back later, and sent Thorin from the room and asked Bilbo so many confusing and contradictory questions that Bilbo was quite befuddled by it. And yet Bilbo did not reveal the secret of the wasting to him, for all that Gandalf was a friend and a wizard and would help if he could.

Gandalf knew much about Hobbits, but he did not know this, and Bilbo would not be the one to tell him.

All the Company visited him, singly or in pairs, over the next few days while Bilbo lay in his bed. He allowed them to fuss over him, because he knew they felt guilty for not seeing how ill he had become, and because he knew that he could not last many more weeks, here under the Mountain with the press of stone around him and no roots with which to anchor himself.

He allowed his friends to care for him, each in their own way. Ori brought him books, and when Bilbo could no longer hold the books up or turn the pages, Kili spent hours reading to him. Bofur came and talked to him, his stories as cheerful as ever but a sadness on his face whenever he thought Bilbo wasn’t looking. Bombur came, and Bifur with him, bringing treats to tempt Bilbo’s appetite, though Bilbo ate less and less as every day went by. Oin tried to feed him draughts and concoctions, but Bilbo refused them. His was not an illness that could be healed by herbal remedies. Balin and Dwalin came together, although neither spoke much, not even to Thorin of the duties he was neglecting by remaining so much at Bilbo’s bedside. Dori brought him new blankets, and Nori made sure his fire never lacked for wood.

“I cannot breathe,” Bilbo whispered, one morning when he was alone with Thorin. He shivered constantly now, wracked with cold despite the fire close by and the many blankets piled over him. Thorin shared body heat when they were alone, pressed together beneath the blankets, but it did not help, although Bilbo was comforted by it. Thorin was a heated furnace beside him, and his arms were strong and solid, and Bilbo wished he could root himself to Thorin, wished that Thorin could be enough to keep him alive. 

He shook with the cold that gnawed at his bones, and Thorin held him close and tried to still his trembling limbs. Bilbo shuddered and pressed his face against Thorin’s shoulder. Thorin smelled of hot metal and fire, and Bilbo wondered if he’d been in the forges before coming here.

“I cannot breathe,” he whispered, and Thorin’s hand tightened on his hip.

“A new symptom?” he demanded urgently. Bilbo shook his head. There was no tightening in his chest, as there would be if he had a cold that settled into his lungs. It was not his lungs that were at fault; it was the press of old air in the Mountain. Air shafts and ventilation there was, but it was not fresh air, not as Bilbo knew it, and the wasting sickness made it harder and harder for him to do anything. He was so tired, and so cold, and he longed for a fresh breeze and the sunlight, even though neither would help him now.

“Bilbo,” said Thorin, desperation colouring his voice, “if there is anything that will help you, you have only to ask. I am not used to feeling so helpless.”

Bilbo sighed and lifted his head a little, to press a kiss to Thorin’s jaw. Thorin turned his head so their lips met in a chaste kiss. Bilbo had no energy for anything more, now, but he still treasured the love with which Thorin’s kisses were bestowed.

“I would give up all of Erebor’s treasure to see you well again,” Thorin murmured, his beard tickling at Bilbo’s skin a little. “I cannot forgive myself for not seeing how ill you had become. I knew you were tired, but – ”

“No,” said Bilbo quickly, stopping Thorin’s shamed words. Thorin had said this many times, since Gandalf’s arrival, and Bilbo did not want Thorin to blame himself. “I hid it,” Bilbo said. “I hid it from you.”

“And you will not tell me why,” Thorin said. There was bitterness in his voice, rather than anger, but still Bilbo felt ashamed. He rested his head once more on Thorin’s shoulder, but he still shivered and he still longed for air.

“Take me outside,” he said at length. “I want to see the sun, Thorin.”

Thorin protested, even going so far as to find Oin to back up his opinion that Bilbo should stay in bed where he could be warm, but Bilbo wanted to go out, and Gandalf was on his side.

“It won’t do him any harm, and it might do him some good,” the wizard said, when Thorin dragged him into Bilbo’s room and demanded his opinion. Thorin growled, but Gandalf had never been intimidated by Thorin, and he looked unimpressed. “If that’s what he wants,” Gandalf said, quite pointedly, “I think you should give it to him.” Then he took Thorin further away from the bed, closer to the door, and lowered his voice. Bilbo heard him anyway, his hearing still as keen as ever.

“He cannot last much longer,” Gandalf told Thorin. Bilbo couldn’t see Thorin’s face but he could imagine it. “And if he will not speak of the illness, there is nothing any of us can do for him but try to keep him comfortable.”

“I cannot accept that,” said Thorin, louder than he intended, and he glanced across at Bilbo, who pretended not to be listening. He wished he could tell Thorin the truth, now when it could no longer matter, but still he could not do it. Gandalf said nothing more, but his face was expressive as he left. Thorin came back to Bilbo’s side and clasped his hand. “Will this help?” he asked, and Bilbo shrugged a little.

“I want to see the sky,” he said. Thorin bowed his head and kissed Bilbo’s hand, and then went to find a litter, for Bilbo flatly refused to be carried. He returned soon with Dwalin to help bear it, and if Bilbo had been less fatigued he would have laughed at the way the stout warrior fussed at his blankets and made sure that Bilbo was covered from neck to toe.

They carried Bilbo from his room and through the halls of Erebor, and Bilbo was surprised at how many of Dain’s folk greeted him with a cheerful wave and a friendly face. He had not realised how many of them had come to look fondly on him, too preoccupied with concealing as much of his illness as he could. If he had been even a little less ill, Bilbo would have waved back, or asked Thorin to stop so he might speak with some of them. But he was too ill, and Thorin was focused on taking Bilbo out of the Mountain and into the sunshine that he had asked for, so they did not stop.

They went through the great front gates, and Bilbo had to shut his eyes at first until he grew used to the brightness of the sun. It was a perfect spring day, warm and a little breezy, but Bilbo could feel himself growing cold far too quickly. He would not manage long in the air, he knew, but he would not say so to Thorin, who took him to one of the gentler slopes of the Mountain and then sent Dwalin away for a time.

“Is this better, Bilbo?” Thorin asked then, and he joined Bilbo on the litter, lying beside him without attempting to disrupt the blankets.

“Yes,” said Bilbo, and he managed a smile for the Dwarf who loved him so dearly. He took a great breath of air, turned his face up to the sky, and wished he could spend the remainder of his days just like this. On the Lonely Mountain that he now called home, with the Dwarf he loved best, and the sun on his face.

“You are crying,” said Thorin wonderingly. Bilbo couldn’t touch his face, his arms too deeply buried under the blankets, but Thorin reached out and stroked his forefinger down Bilbo’s cheek, following the path of a tear.

“I don’t want this to be the end,” Bilbo confessed. Thorin made a sound, deep in his throat, and Bilbo shed another tear. 

“I will not let you go,” Thorin vowed. “Not while I have breath in my body. I almost lost you once, through my own weakness. I will not let you go now, Bilbo.” He tangled his fingers in Bilbo’s hair, as if to keep him anchored to life. “Is there nothing that can help you?” he demanded. Bilbo looked at him, his proud Dwarf, and something inside him seemed to break. 

He shuddered and closed his eyes, sure that he would not be able to speak if he could see how Thorin looked at him while he betrayed secrets.

“I’d almost forgotten about it,” Bilbo said then. “We don’t speak of it, you see. Well, we don’t really need to. Hobbits aren’t known for leaving the Shire. There are some living in Bree, of course, but…” He trailed off, shook his head and returned to the point. “Even Gandalf doesn’t know this,” he went on. “It’s a secret. Do you understand? We never speak of it to outsiders. Ever. Hardly even among ourselves. The Shire… it doesn’t matter there, it’s not something we have to think about. The soil is rich, and we have fields and woods and gardens. You won’t meet a Hobbit who isn’t proud of the plants he grows, and there’s a reason for that.”

He was silent then, for a long moment – long enough that Thorin shifted beside him.

“Dwarves have their secrets too,” Thorin said, and Bilbo nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “But sometimes you share them, don’t you? I know things about Dwarves, now, that most people wouldn’t.” He risked a glance at Thorin then, to see how the king was reacting to this. Thorin’s brow was furrowed, but his gaze was steady. “This is _never_ spoken of,” Bilbo said again. “It’s more than just – I’ve struggled with this, Thorin. But it’s not fair to you, not to know. And I trust you. You won’t tell anyone.”

“Nobody,” said Thorin at once. “I swear it. I will take the secret with me to my death.”

Bilbo trusted Thorin as he trusted no other, and at last he told Thorin the truth of it. He spoke for long minutes, uninterrupted, and revealed secrets that only Hobbits had ever known before. Bilbo explained the connection between Hobbits and the living things that grew in the earth, the warmth in their hearts that came from tending plants, the gentle hum in their bones that came from growing things. He talked of the wasting, and he had never been at such a loss for words as he was then, trying to explain how Hobbits were rooted to life through the roots around them. It was not an explanation he had ever had to give, and he had spoken truly when he had told Thorin that even among Hobbits, they did not talk about it. There was no need to, for every Hobbit understood their connection to the earth.

“Nothing grows here,” he finished at last. “Nothing has roots in the soil of this mountain. Dale’s plants and trees were burned long ago.”

“Then this is my fault,” said Thorin, and he was pale and aghast. “I asked you to stay here, when you should have gone back to your green home.”

“No,” said Bilbo at once. “No, this isn’t your fault. I ignored it until it was too late.” His mouth was dry from talking so much, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Thorin’s hand was stroking his hair, fingertips brushing against his ear, and Bilbo wished he could appreciate it more. “I didn’t realise until I was too ill to go anywhere,” Bilbo said with a heavy sigh. “And after I did realise, I didn’t want to leave you.”

“There must still be hope,” said Thorin, a new determination filling his voice and expression. “We can take you to Lake-town – there are trees growing there yet, and fields that escaped Smaug’s wrath.”

Bilbo shook his head, just a little. The effort was almost too much for him, and he had to close his eyes now. “No,” he murmured. “Not enough. Only the deepest roots could help me now.” He thought of the Old Forest outside the Shire, and of the tales he had read of Lorien and Fangorn. Even Mirkwood, sick as it was, might give him a little longer. But he did not have the strength to travel, and he wanted to spend his last days with Thorin.

“Bilbo,” said Thorin, and there was an urgency to his voice that made Bilbo want to open his eyes again. “Bilbo, will that keep you with me? Old trees with deep roots?”

Bilbo could not speak. Darkness encroached upon him, cold and all-encompassing, and he knew no more. He no longer heard Thorin, no longer felt the sun on his face. Bilbo was aware of nothing, and later he would reflect that this was a blessing. But at the time he had no thoughts as he slipped into what he assumed would be his death.

He did not know how long he lingered in the darkness. Later, he would be told of the weeks he had slept, unaware of his surroundings, and he would be shocked by it, but when first he awoke, he did not realise how long it had been, and he was surprised to find himself alive.

He was further surprised when he lifted his head and looked around, for he was no longer in Erebor. He was in a bed, but the bed was out doors, set in a clearing in a forest that Bilbo recognised as Mirkwood. Elven guards stood about the clearing, and near to Bilbo’s bed stood Thranduil’s son, Legolas, with Kili and the guard Tauriel.

“What am I doing here?” Bilbo asked, bewildered, but he was not given opportunity to speak more, because as soon as he spoke, all three turned to him in amazement and then hurried to his side. Tauriel touched his forehead and felt his hands; Legolas smiled wider than Bilbo had ever seen an Elf smile; and Kili, who looked tired and worn, knelt down beside the bed and visibly struggled to control himself.

He had been brought to Mirkwood some eight weeks before, they explained to Bilbo, when they were assured that he was indeed awake and feeling much better than he had any right to be feeling. Thorin had brought him, carried on a litter and with an honour guard of Dwarves, and he had humbled himself by asking Thranduil to care for Bilbo until he woke. Thranduil had agreed, although even Legolas was not sure why, and ever since then Bilbo had been under the protection of the Elves. Every day they had brought him out into the safe parts of the forest, close to Thranduil’s halls, to be close to the trees and out in the fresh air. Every night they had taken him back inside and fed him with strong Elven _miruvor_ , trickling it drop by drop down his throat.

“Thorin had to go back to Erebor,” Kili told him, his eyes still suspiciously bright and his hand clasping Bilbo’s almost too tightly. “The first caravans from Ered Luin were due, and he couldn’t – but I stayed with you. Fili would have, too, but Uncle said we couldn’t both be here.”

Bilbo couldn’t speak – there was an annoying lump in his throat – but he squeezed Kili’s hand and nodded. 

He didn’t know how to frame the most pressing question that came to mind, but in a moment he was reassured without having to say anything. Tauriel observed, with a quizzical look, that Thorin had not explained why Bilbo should recover in the forest, nor had he told them what ailed Bilbo that he should need such a cure. Bilbo closed his eyes for a moment, relieved that his trust had been rewarded, and then he yelped as Kili could no longer contain his happiness and landed on the bed, hugging Bilbo tight in a tumble of limbs. Bilbo ended up with hair in his mouth, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt energised, and warm, and he could hear the hum of the trees around him, deep in his bones.

“I’m hungry,” he announced, when it seemed that Kili had no plans to release him in the near future. “Kili, you great lump, get off me so I can have some breakfast.”

Kili laughed. “Now I know you’re feeling better,” he said, and untangled himself from Bilbo. “Just so you know,” he said, solemn then, “if you had died, Uncle would never have forgiven you.”

Bilbo huffed and scolded, but secretly he cherished the knowledge. He allowed Kili and Tauriel to hover at his shoulders as he took his first steps, and then let them tuck him back into the bed so that he could eat in comfort. He still felt weaker than he should, and the voluminous nightgown he wore could not conceal how thin he was, but Bilbo wasn’t worried, not any longer. He had recovered, and that was the most important thing, for now.

They stayed outside for the rest of the day, and then the Elves carried Bilbo back into their halls. Kili did not leave his side until Bilbo slept, and when he awoke the next morning, Kili was slumped across the end of his bed. It warmed his heart, to know he had such a staunch friend, and it made him think of his other friends. He longed to see them – and Thorin. Thorin most of all, who had asked for help from the Elves for Bilbo’s sake. 

“I want to go back to Erebor,” he announced over breakfast, shared with Kili and Tauriel. They looked at each other, sharing something unspoken, and then they shook their heads.

“You’ve been sleeping for eight weeks, Uncle,” Kili reminded him. “You’re too thin. You wouldn’t manage the journey.”

“Stay a while longer and regain your strength,” Tauriel agreed. “You are welcome in Mirkwood for as long as you need, Elf-friend.”

They were immovable, and in truth Bilbo was not sure how able he felt to tackle the ride to Erebor. A few days, he conceded at last, but then he would go, whether they would aid him or not.

He could not help but remember that Thorin must have parted from him not knowing whether he would ever see Bilbo alive again. He would not allow Thorin’s pain to last a moment longer than it must. He tried not think about how he could live in the Mountain without growing ill again. It seemed impossible. But he would not be parted from Thorin easily, and Bilbo grew gloomy as he pondered the difficulty.

Kili did not notice his mood, but Tauriel seemed to, and she worked to keep Bilbo busy. She brought him more food than even a fit Hobbit could eat, and brought Legolas to help her to entertain him with Elven stories. Kili helped eat the food, and shared Dwarf stories in his turn, and watched Bilbo closely, as if he were afraid that Bilbo would succumb to illness again.

But Bilbo felt daily stronger and healthier. Mirkwood was tainted, yet the trees grew deep and tall, and Bilbo recovered under their shadows. The blight of Dol Guldur would lift in time, and perhaps Mirkwood would become Greenwood once more, but for now it was enough to anchor Bilbo’s spirit and to restore his body.

At last he would wait no longer, and he thanked Thranduil and Legolas for their care, accepted an escort as far as Lake-town, and wondered what Thorin would say to the tender goodbye shared between Kili and Tauriel. He would not be content, Bilbo was sure, though clearly Kili was happy. Bilbo refrained from teasing the young Dwarf, though it was hard to do so when Kili kept looking back, for as long as Tauriel was within sight at the edge of the forest.

They travelled slowly. Bilbo was gaining weight and gaining strength, but he could not ride a full day without rest, and the Elves who accompanied them were clearly under instructions to take great care of him. At length, however, they arrived at Lake-town, and the Elves relinquished Bilbo into Bard’s care.

Bard and his children were glad to see Bilbo and Kili both, and urged them to stay for a few days.

“I’m going across the lake to Dale, in two days,” he told them. “Thorin has promised more aid for the rebuilding, now more Dwarves have returned to the Mountain. I should feel much happier if you would wait, Master Baggins.” 

“We shall,” said Kili, casting a sharp look at Bilbo, who had to admit that the journey from Mirkwood had tired him. “And we thank you for your kindness.”

They stayed with Bard for two days, and Kili made Bilbo rest by the simple expedient of telling Bard’s eldest daughter, Sigrid, that Bilbo had been ill. She was a domestic creature, ruling over Bilbo with an iron will, and Bilbo found himself meekly submitting to her orders. It amused Kili immensely, until Sigrid turned on him and threw him from their shelter with the suggestion that he should aid Lake-town’s survivors in building their new homes.

Bard took them across the lake on the third day, and they were greeted by a merry group of Men and Dwarves working together to raise houses. Bofur was among them, and he was so exuberant in his joy at seeing Bilbo so well recovered that he grabbed hold of Bilbo and spun him around in a circle.

“You’ll make him dizzy,” said Kili, who took his role as Bilbo’s protector most seriously, and he snatched Bilbo from Bofur’s grip and brushed down Bilbo’s coat, ignoring Bilbo’s protests that really, he was quite all right.

“Do they know you’re coming back?” Bofur asked, jerking his head up towards the Lonely Mountain, and he grinned when he heard the answer. “Ah, you’ll give him a shock,” he said. “Cheer him up a bit, too, I imagine. He’s been in a foul mood since you’ve been gone.”

They walked the rest of the way, and with every step Bilbo’s worries grew. He did not doubt Thorin’s welcome, but he still had no idea how he could live under the Mountain again, not without becoming ill once more. Erebor’s slopes and cliffs did not support plant life as Bilbo needed it. Perhaps, he thought, as he and Kili approached the gates – perhaps he could live in Dale, when Dale was rebuilt. It was close to the Mountain, and safer for him. 

Their approach was seen, and when Bilbo and Kili reached the gates themselves, Thorin was waiting for them, Fili at his side. Thorin did not wait for Bilbo; he closed the gap between them and held Bilbo close to him, their foreheads pressed together and their breath mingling.

“Bilbo,” he muttered, and Bilbo clutched at Thorin’s fur surcoat and longed for privacy so he could kiss Thorin as he wished. “You are well?” Thorin asked, when eventually he lifted his head from Bilbo’s. “You are recovered?”

“He still needs fattening up,” said Kili, close at hand.

“That won’t be a problem,” said Fili with a laugh. “Bombur’s been planning all sorts for him. The trouble will be stopping him from going the other way.”

Bilbo winced a little, and Thorin caught it, his expression darkening for a moment as he understood. Bilbo would not gain much weight living under the Mountain. He would fall into sickness again. And yet, Bilbo knew, he would risk it for this Dwarf who held onto him as if he were the most precious thing in Middle-earth.

“Come,” said Thorin then. “You must have rest and food.” He released Bilbo, only to drape his arm across Bilbo’s shoulders. It was a warm weight, and Bilbo was glad of it as Thorin took him into the Mountain once more.

They did not go to Bilbo’s rooms, and when Bilbo asked why not, Thorin would say nothing and Fili merely grinned his most mischievous grin. It made Kili irritable with curiosity, but neither Thorin nor Fili would speak of whatever surprise they had prepared for Bilbo’s return. They took Bilbo up through the Mountain, to a hallway that Bilbo had not seen before, into a set of rooms that had been furnished with things brought from Bilbo’s rooms.

“Thorin,” said Bilbo, shaking his head in bemusement, “what’s going on? The other rooms were more than good enough for me, you know.”

“These are better,” said Thorin, and he drew Bilbo to the far side of the sitting room, to a set of double doors. He opened them, and gave Bilbo a gentle push when Bilbo made no move through the doorway.

He made no move, because he was astonished with what lay beyond the doors.

“We’ve been very busy,” said Fili, quite conversationally, coming up behind him and resting a hand on his shoulder. “It was Uncle’s idea, of course. He thought you’d miss your garden too much, if you stayed here much longer.” 

The doors led out onto a large terrace, sheltered on one side by a sheer cliff face but open to the elements elsewhere. Great raised flower beds had been created, and in the centre of the terrace a young sapling had been planted into the biggest of these. Some of the beds had been used – Bilbo could see the tips of green shoots just beginning to emerge from the dark, rich soil.

It was a garden; a garden for him. Bilbo stepped out onto the terrace properly, and looked around with amazement. There was a stack of flower pots on one side, and a pile of gardening tools, and beside the door there was even a tap over a large stone basin, to provide water for the plants that would grow here.

“But where,” he exclaimed, “did all this come from?” He turned back to Thorin, incredulous, and barely noticed when Fili and Kili disappeared back into the rooms. Thorin looked pleased, and Bilbo decided that he had to kiss him before anything more was said. Thorin seemed to have no objections, and it was some time before he could answer Bilbo’s questions.

He had ordered it made, he told Bilbo, and Fili had helped him. The soil had come from around the lake, the bulbs and seeds from the Men of Lake-town, and the young tree also. He himself, he said, had made the gardening tools for Bilbo to use.

“I will not be parted from you,” he said, and it sounded like a vow to Bilbo’s ears. “I will not allow it. But you must have growing things to live.”

“So you made me a garden,” Bilbo murmured, awed by the gesture.

“Is it enough?” Thorin demanded, and he could not hide his anxiety from Bilbo, who knew him so well now. Bilbo smiled, and kissed Thorin again, simply because he could.

“I think so,” he said, when they parted once more. “The tree will root firmly. Tending the soil will help me root into it.” He looked around, barely able to believe that Thorin had done this for him. “Yes,” he murmured, more to himself than to Thorin, “yes, I think I can be well here.” With plants to warm his heart and to sink into his bones, Bilbo could stay in Erebor with Thorin.

“Then you will stay?” Thorin asked, clutching Bilbo tighter as if he was afraid of Bilbo’s answer. “You will stay with me?”

“I love you,” said Bilbo simply. “I would not be anywhere else.”

Thorin kissed him again, and then Fili and Kili returned, chasing each other through the door and across the terrace until they tripped and fell into a heap of limbs and clothing and hair.

Bilbo laughed. His roots would be here now. Perhaps a Hobbit could live under a Mountain after all, he thought, and kissed Thorin once more before Thorin swept him into his arms and carried him inside and to the bedroom, leaving their nephews to their play.

**Author's Note:**

> An idea planted itself in my head and refused to leave me alone until I wrote it - pun not intended! Many thanks to Laligin and Pinkfairy727 for cheerleading and beta-reading.


End file.
